


Now There's Only Me

by General_Syndulla



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Angst, Blood, Cutting, Depression, Gen, Hurt, Sad, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-30
Updated: 2019-09-30
Packaged: 2020-11-08 00:37:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20826452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/General_Syndulla/pseuds/General_Syndulla
Summary: Alone with his thoughts, Anakin turns to an old and familiar comfort. At the expense of his own health, of the drip of his own blood, he seeks peace with a blade. The routine brings him a small amount of comfort, even though it isn't the healthiest way of doing things.





	Now There's Only Me

**Author's Note:**

> There is graphic depiction of self-harm in this story. If you are triggered by thoughts of depression, self-harm, or suicide, please exercise caution before reading.
> 
> If you are struggling with these kinds of thoughts someone to talk to is never far away. [Please consider reaching out.](https://www.iasp.info/resources/Crisis_Centres/)

The room was cast in dark shadows. The lights from Coruscant reflected off the windows, speeder taillights streaking red through the air for as far as one could see. One lamp lit the corner of the room, but not much else light cast onto the scene unfolding on the bed. With a clatter, the metal blade fell to the floor.

A crude instrument, but one Anakin Skywalker knew well. Said blade had become akin to a friend to him in recent years. Perhaps even closer.

He glared down at his arm, his eyes becoming like narrow slits. He usually looked at least somewhat morose, but now especially he looked borderline deadly. Anakin looked like the type that if you kriffed with him, you’d be facing up to meet your maker the next moment. Maybe it suited him, but he knew both what he was feeling and what he was looking at were neither very becoming of a Jedi Knight. Especially not one trying to become a Master on the Council as he wished to be.

Anakin’s left arm, the one he still had fully intact, was rife with horizontal slashes. Some were light, only surface level and the skin red with irritation of the scratch. Others were deeper. Cutting into the tissue and almost into the muscle beneath.

Blood started to seep at the edges and spaced along the angry red lines, seeping down his forearm. He had set a towel in his lap specifically for this problem, watching as he clenched his fist and the blood welled up faster. He wouldn’t want to make a mess, after all.

Tears started to prick in his eyes, mimicking the blood. They mixed as the drops fell from his face onto his slashed open arm, the thinner liquid running down the side of his arm. The towel was dotted with red now. His life was supposed to be a grand thing. He was supposed to be grateful for where he was now. So why didn’t he ever feel that way? Anakin sniffled as a wave of emotion threatened to overtake him, engulf him completely until there was nothing left standing. He had to be careful.

Such an overt display of emotion might attract the attention of others in the Temple. The last thing he wanted at a vulnerable time like this.

Instead, he held his mechanical hand out, gauntlet removed, outstretched golden fingers catching the blade as it sailed through the air back toward him, cutting through the space as easily as it cut through his flesh. Anakin held the blade in his mechanical hand, his wounded arm laying extended beneath him.

He shakily brought the sharp edge of it back toward his own body, angling it so that the blade began to cut into his skin, further opening the simple scratches he had started with before he had escalated to the full on cuts that now marred his freckled skin. A simple scratch like this wouldn’t do. He wanted deeper.

Harder, and more painful whenever possible. Anakin wanted his body to reflect how his mind felt. Scarred and torn and broken.

Anakin barely winced. It hurt, sure, but it still didn’t hurt nearly as bad as the pain held in cold chains around his heart, the pain that seared his eyes and his brain behind it with an almost unbearable heat. He felt almost entranced by the sight of his flesh cut open before him, the sight of his own blood weeping from the jagged and uneven wounds. His skin itched slightly as the blade caught old wounds, reopening the delicate white scars.

His life felt like a rip-off, like he had been swindled at the swap market. He hadn’t asked to be born, and as far as he knew neither had his mother. Was he destined only to suffer, for the amusement of some higher power? Was the Force making a mockery of his life for its own entertainment’s sake?

Anakin’s life didn’t make sense, no matter how often he seemed to try to piece the puzzle together in his scrambled head. He had the distinct feeling others felt the same way.

Child slave.

Lost teenager.

And now as an adult? Stuck in the same element of bondage.

Just under a new name.

He couldn’t be himself here. He had never been allowed to simply exist. Feeling too much, overthinking, his wings clipped before he could truly fly. Anakin hated his life, hated waking up each day. He had never thought he would even make it so far in his old life. Being “rescued” by the Jedi made him feel like he had something of a chance. But the thrill had worn off, his peek behind the curtain had eliminated any of his excitement about it.

He desperately wanted to be seen as a person. Instead he felt like he was a tool, only as wanted as his talents were useful.

Anakin’s thoughts swirled and raced, slow and fast all at once, as he watched the blood drip down his arm, his fingers twitching. The blade fell to the floor again, for good this time. His furnace heart was starting to at last feel quelled, like he could shut the door and latch it, keep it at bay just slightly longer. The first time he had done it, he had felt terrified and ashamed. Now, countless times later, it was almost as simple for him as breathing. He didn’t know what that said about him.

Blue eyes roved over the way the lights through the window made the white lines on his skin seem even brighter, even bigger. Countless times.

He hadn’t cut deep enough to bleed out, he never would, but he had certainly done quite a bit of damage to himself. Two or three slashes in particular were bleeding particularly steadily. Anakin suspected he had struck closer to the muscle than normal, by the way his arm surged with a deep pain at those points.

He needed to take care of it soon, but for now he lay back in his bed, watching the speeder lights reflect on the ceiling. Now his face was neutral, cold, distant, like his body was there but his mind was far off. No one could get to him now, even if they really wanted to.

Anakin wrapped the towel tightly around his arm to stem the bleeding. He’d slow it for now. At the moment he needed to lie there more. When he did this, it made his frustration wane. It kept his despair at length for just a little more. Made him feel like almost half of a person.

A coldness slowly washed over him. Born of the desert, he of course often felt this way on most planets anyway, but this was a different kind of chill. It welled up inside him and broke over from his own brain, creeping from head to toe with the same lazy slowness as a wave washing up on a beach. He clutched his wrapped arm to himself, disengaging his mechnoarm and rolling over onto his side. It was overwhelming and he had to stop it any way he could. Maybe curling up so small would make it stop. Maybe if he made it so he was so small his own emotions couldn’t get him.

Anakin had been taught self-defense in many forms, with weapons and without. But no one had ever taught Anakin how to defend himself from his own hands.

A soft sob escaped him as tears rolled down his cheeks, his eyes squeezed shut. All he could do now was wait for the feelings to pass. Anakin just wished it would end soon.


End file.
